Witch & Wizard: The Kiss Preview

Whit and Wisty Allgood have finally triumphed over the evil that has long overshadowed their world with their defeat of The One Who Is The One. Now they move on to their next mission: becoming members of a governing Council that will return the Overworld to a place of creativity, magic, and freedom from persecution.

PROLOGUE
DESTINY’S
RIDDLE
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One
Wisty
I CAN’T BELIEVE what I’m witnessing.
You would think it was a riot if you saw us on TV.
Shouts cut through the crisp air. Bodies push and sway.
Hands rip at flags and banners, and feet kick in surveillance screens. A great bonfire swallows up the splintered
pieces of the destruction.
But no fists are raised, and this isn’t a protest. I’m opening my lungs, but it’s to join the ecstatic voices in celebration: The One Who Is The One, the Overworld’s violent
dictator, is dead, and the New Order regime has fallen.
We are free.
Free to listen to music—and it’s pumping through the
loudspeakers.
Free to read books. We’re clutching them to our chests.
Free to believe what we want and to say what we feel.
Even free to walk the streets without being arrested.
Excitement fizzes through my whole being, and every
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nerve stands on end as the crowd moves as one toward a
vast stage in the center of the capital’s square for the ceremony marking the end of the New Order’s totalitarian
regime and the return to a peaceful democracy. I’m grinning in the middle of the sea of people, and I pull my tangled hair back from my face as I jostle for a view.
A man in a smart gray suit takes the stage and taps the
microphone. He’s doughy and stern-faced, with his white
hair parted severely to the side, and I recognize him as
General Matthias Bloom, one of the last holdouts against
the New Order in the outer suburbs.
A hush falls as thousands upon thousands of eager eyes
gaze up at him.
“My dear, dear friends, today is a new beginning, a
beautiful beginning for all of us. And to mark that birth,”
his voice booms, “I introduce to you now . . . your new
Council!”
I’m tingly all over, almost like the electricity I feel when
my magic is strong, or the awesome rush of adrenaline
when I’m performing onstage. It’s like the air itself is buzzing with hope.
General Bloom starts to read off the names of seventeen men and women and seventeen kids our age: the
group chosen to restore this place to the way it once was,
to the City we loved before The One Who Is The One brutally enforced the madness of his New Order.
“Wisteria Rose Allgood,” he reads, and I can’t help it—
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tears are streaming down my cheeks as I mount the stone
steps, my name echoing through the loudspeakers.
My brother, Whit, is right by my side—and this is why
I love him so much—Whit has tears in his eyes, too, and
he’s not ashamed. As divided as our City once was, with
neighbor killing neighbor and only suspicion to feed us
when food was scarce, it’s incredible to be part of the leadership that will bring us back together for something
else— something good.
As I stand on that stage, representing all these united
voices, the rebel in me can’t resist. I pull a scrap of a banner from my shoulder bag. I spread the crimson fabric
open with two arms above my head, and the crowd starts
to jeer and yell as the sign of the New Order billows in the
wind.
Red means the New Order. Red means the Blood Plague.
Red means death.
My brother elbows me—this whole ceremony has been
planned out minute by minute, and I’m definitely straying
way off script—but there’s a method to my madness, and
he knows it.
I concentrate on the buildup of heat in my chest, and
flames lick out from my fingertips and climb up the banner, enveloping it in seconds.
The crowd is in a frenzy of cheers and shouts, and I’m
up here grinning giddily. By seeing that shock of red blackening to ash, we know that even though we can never get
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back the things we lost, we have overcome so, so much.
And with hands clasped, hearts pounding, and a few deep
breaths, we can still do this—we can mold this society
into something great.
I’m a part of it, and you’re a part of it.
It’s just the beginning.
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Two
Whit
DUSK IS FALLING, and we’re singing. My heart seems to
be lodged way up in my throat.
Having taken our vows, we thirty-four Council members stand side by side in a circle on the stage. We wear
different badges of honor or war or age, but standing here
together, we’re equals.
We sing the old songs today, songs we learned from our
parents. Songs I sang with the Neederman family last year
on the Holiday, not knowing whether my sister would live
or die from the plague. As our voices waver on the final
note, General Bloom takes the stage again.
“Today, we sing for new beginnings.” Applause echoes
across the square. “But we sing to remember our history as
well, and an older order!” He holds a hefty, yellowed tome
above his head, and an audible gasp can be heard from the
crowd.
I’m in awe, like everyone else. The Book of Truths. The
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most sacred text in the Overworld. Destiny’s riddle. The
book that has defined our lives. We all grew up revering its
words, but few of us have seen it, and actually touching its
dusty pages seems unthinkable.
But because Matthias Bloom salvaged the book from
the embers while so many great texts burned, he is its new
Keeper.
At her cue, Janine strides to the podium. I’d be sweating bullets if I had to actually speak today, but she’s poised
and confident, and gives the crowd a long, measured look.
She’s in her standard combat boots. Her hair is as wild as
ever, and she wears no makeup. But as usual, she’s luminous.
“The Book of Truths prophesized that only a sister and a
brother, a witch and a wizard, could defeat The One Who
Is The One,” Janine says into the microphone, her voice
clear and strong. “It told of their power, of a sky filled with
flames.” At the mention of my sister’s Gift of fire, the
square erupts in cheers. “Among many things we celebrate
today, we pay tribute to their strength and courage that led
to The One’s ultimate downfall.”
Now the cheers crescendo, but Janine’s not finished.
“But never forget, we are all brothers and sisters. I know
the fire of life, love, and leadership is burning not just in
Wisty Allgood, but in each one of us.”
No one cheers that line more than my sister. Wisty
hoots her agreement, rebel-style, and I grin. Janine was just
supposed to introduce Wisty and me, but give her a platform and some willing ears, and she’ll tell you what’s what
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every time. She’s a great speaker—articulate, endearing,
whip-smart—and the crowd is eating up her every word.
So am I.
“We all have equal power and responsibility to make
this City great,” Janine continues. “Because that fire inside
us is hotter than any magic, stronger than any spell. It’s
the spark of change and the slow burn of new hope!” She
looks out over the transfixed faces, satisfied. “And now, my
friends, without further ado, I give you your heroes . . .
Whit and Wisty Allgood!”
We step forward, and the crowd pulses and chants both
of our names, but I know it’s Wisty’s fire they’ve come to
see today.
She doesn’t disappoint. First, sparks shoot from her
hands again, but as the fire grows, my sister becomes a
human torch, the flames on her head even redder than her
hair. Her feet singe a black spot onto the platform, and
even her gaze smolders.
Plenty of people have seen her flame out, though, so
this time she takes it to the max. She swoops her hand
across the sky dramatically, and a splash of light follows
her arc, exploding in a million dots of color. Her hands
dance inside their flames, the shower of fireworks becoming brighter as the choreography becomes more complex.
It’s the most beautiful show any of us has ever seen, but
there’s something deeper going on here, too.
Wisty’s magic painted across the sky says what Bloom
did not: We have the freedom to write our own story now.
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I gaze out across the crowded square flickering with
vivid color underneath the fireworks. I take in the many
faces, old and young, magic-making or not, from near and
far. Color dances in their eyes, and their faces glow with a
joy we’d forgotten could exist.
Except . . .
There’s a small group at the very edge of the crowd,
apart from the rest. As I squint my eyes, trying to make
out their dark clothes— street rags or shredded New Order
Youth uniforms—the tallest one drags a finger slowly
across his neck. My own throat goes dry.
He’s looking straight at me.
I glance at my sister to see if she noticed the ragged
group on the outskirts. Wisty’s still eating up the attention, waving to the people and grinning at our parents,
who are levitating above the crowd to show their support.
When I look back to the threatening figure, there’s no
one there.
It’s not over yet. . . .
Is it?
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BOOK ONE
THE FIRST TRUTH:
YOU CAN’T
TRICK THE
INNER EYE
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Chapter 1
Wisty
THE INAUGURAL CEREMONY earlier was superemotional and important, but this is what I have been waiting
for: music pumping through my veins. The spotlight bathing me in its beam. My hair flying around me as I shred my
guitar.
It’s not quite like when I played for thousands at the
underground Stockwood Music Festival last year—I mean,
I have to admit, it was pretty fun to break the law—but
rocking the open-mic stage at the Art Is Alive Gala is pretty
thrilling.
For one thing, the gala involves all the stuff we love
that’s been banned for so long. There are tons of new sculptures, films, and writing exhibited here, and looking out
from the stage, it’s incredible to see all the paintings The
One confiscated now restored and lining the walls. You’d
never guess this gallery used to be a New Order armory.
I wipe the sweat from my brow and shout into the
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microphone, “We can’t forget: art is alive . . . because The
One is dead!” The crowd roars.
I strum the final chord and step off the small stage to
rejoin my group of friends—mostly kids from the former
Resistance. As the lights dim for the next act, Sasha hands
me some strong-smelling punch.
“Cheers to the rock star,” he says.
I take a sip . . . and spit it out as the astringent burn
takes over my nostrils.
“Sorry. Maybe it’s my strong aversion to the color red,
but not for me.”
Whit nods. “Trust me, she’s already pretty spazzy as is
without alcohol.” I scoff, and Whit breaks into a smile.
“Hey, spazzy is a good quality in an entertainer. You were
awesome up there, by the way.”
I beam at him. “So is this DJ,” I say as a new act
starts up.
“Yeah. That’s my friend Ross Lilienfield,” Sasha says.
“We used to record mixes together in his basement when
we were kids. This is definitely his best stuff.”
I nod appreciatively and start to move with the music,
the energy making its way down to my hips and feet.
Janine nudges me. “Looks like you’ve got a fan.”
Now I sense the eyes on me. Through the darkness, I
can see a boy. His eyes lock on mine, and something in me
feels as explosive as the fireworks I created earlier.
Janine squeezes my arm and giggles, but I can’t even
brush it off.
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As the boy starts walking over, my pulse thuds faster
with each step.
But then Byron appears at my side, demanding attention. As usual, he’s in wooing mode. “You’re a virtuoso,
Wisty,” he says, eyes shining with sincerity.
He’s overdressed, but he still looks dapper—almost
handsome—in his crisp white shirt and black tie. I’m sure
some other girl would find the anxious wrinkle in his
brow endearing. Unfortunately, he doesn’t want some
other girl.
“Thanks, Byron,” I murmur, eyes scanning the crowd
for the gorgeous stranger in the shadows. Where did he go?
“I mean, you were completely on fire up there!” he
presses, sensing my attention drifting. Gotta give the kid
credit. He never gives up.
“On fire? Really?” I look at him wryly, and Byron
chuckles.
“I can understand your friend’s mistake,” a voice says
in a low, playful tone into my ear.
When I turn around, my stomach does a triple flip. It’s
the beautiful stranger. Up close, he seems to tower over
me, and his features are chiseled, strong. I’m so flustered I
spill my unwanted punch.
He smiles and leans in even closer. “That smoky voice . . .”
I inhale the leathery smell from his jacket and his aftershave, and feel dizzy. “Your flaming red hair . . . Everything
about you smolders.”
Yet it’s his eyes that seem to blaze, even in the dim light.
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They’re simultaneously intense and bemused. I can’t seem
to look away.
I also can’t seem to speak.
It’s the most forward thing anyone has ever said to me.
Normally I’d give a guy some kind of sharp verbal slap for
coming on like that, but there’s something different about
this one. It’s like he knows I’d suck up anything that comes
out of that perfect mouth.
“Did you really come over here just to give her a cheap
line?” Whit butts in before I can think of an answer.
“Whit!” Janine elbows him and pulls him away, but I’m
totally mortified.
“Sorry about my brother. . . .” I mutter lamely.
“No, it’s okay.” The boy laughs and runs a hand through
the jet-black hair that stands up wildly from his forehead.
“Actually, I came over to say I enjoyed your performance.
A little punk, a little blues, and the vibrato technique and
tonal variations on the power chords were stellar.” He
smiles at me, all easy confidence. “Even if you did rip off
Smash’s shredding style a little bit.”
“Every guitar player rips off Smash a little bit!” I protest, but relent as he shrugs, amused. “You seem to know a
lot about music,” I observe, impressed.
“I know a lot about a lot of things.”
“Oh, yeah?” I smirk. “What else do you know?” I’m
usually pretty skeptical with boys and don’t get into a flirt,
but the banter with this guy comes easily somehow.
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He bends down a bit so his face is next to mine, his
chin brushing against my hair. “I know . . . what you want.”
His voice is a whisper in my ear, and he says each word
like he’s tasting it, savoring it. For a fire girl, it’s pretty
weird to have goose bumps.
“What’s that?” I ask when I finally find my voice.
“To dance. With me.” He’s extremely attractive—like,
beyond—but it’s his unwavering gaze that unhinges me—
the kind of look that could conquer the world.
I eye all the people standing in clusters, talking. “But
no one is dancing.”
“You were. I saw you from across the room. Looking
like you wanted to move. Like you wanted to break all the
rules.”
“That was only swaying,” I say quickly, embarrassed by
how plainly he can see the real me. “I meant no one else is
dancing.”
Hearing that, Janine grabs Whit’s hand and drags him
onto the dance floor. She gives me a wry look over her
shoulder, and I glare daggers back.
The boy cocks an eyebrow, and the shadows play across
his striking face. “So. How about that dance?”
It seems so easy to fall into the rhythm, to let our hips
find the beat, to get closer. . . . But I’m not sure I’m ready. He
just seems a little too gorgeous, a little too tall, a little too
mature, a little too confident. A little too much man for me
right now.
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I wait a second too long, and the guy sighs, turning.
“I’m Heath. Call me when you get sick of standing still,
and we’ll move.” He’s walking away.
“I don’t think you could keep up,” I call after him.
“You really are a firecracker, aren’t you?” Heath grins,
and his electric gaze flickers back at me. “I hope I get the
chance to prove you wrong.”
Then he’s gone, and I let out a slow, measured breath.
Of all the times I’ve been on fire, I’ve never felt sparks quite
like that.
“Who does that guy think he is?” Byron grumbles
beside me.
“What?” I look at him, startled that the rest of the world
hasn’t fallen away.
“Interrupting our conversation, waltzing in here like
he owns the place, and pestering you when you’ve made it
clear that you’re obviously not interested.” He frowns.
“He’s way too old for you, anyway.”
“Shut up, Byron,” I huff. I snap my fingers to work a
little magic, and suddenly Byron is no longer standing in
front of me. In his place, there’s a squeaking weasel. “I
should just leave you like this—your true form.”
But I can never stay mad at Byron for long. I clap my
hands, and he’s back.
“Feel better now that you’ve gotten that out of your system?” he snaps.
I nod, smiling. “Definitely.”
My hips start to twitch again, swaying with the music.
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On the dance floor, Whit and Janine are moving together
under the lights. Around Whit, Janine’s serious eyes sparkle, and her laughter peals across the room. Regardless of
how many girls have batted their eyelashes at him, it’s
weird to think of my brother as some kind of ripped heartthrob. Janine seems to see Whit more deeply than that,
though— she understands Whit the poet, and Whit the
goofball.
He looks utterly smitten, too, and I have to admit,
Janine is one awesome chick. I’m so glad he’s found someone special again, after losing Celia.
I sigh. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss
Heath. . . . But there’s time. Everything feels fresh tonight.
I’m surrounded by friends, family, and amazing artwork,
and there are no bombs.
Just beauty.
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Chapter 2
Pearl
IF ANYONE COULD have used a new beginning, it was
Pearl Marie Neederman.
All she had known in her young life was the thunder of
gunfire, the stench of death in the streets, and the bitter
taste of poverty. Since they didn’t need to beg and steal
anymore, Mama May had wanted her to stay closer to
home, but Pearl had just laughed. She might’ve been only
seven, but she knew the labyrinth of the capital’s alleys
better than anyone.
Besides, the danger was over now.
She brushed her mop of black hair out of her eyes as
she squinted into the pile of trash, looking for the perfect
sparkle, the just-right shape. She wanted to impress everyone tonight at the fancy art show, but first she needed to
find something to contribute.
“Isn’t it only for the rule makers?” she’d asked when
Whit had invited her to the celebration.
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“The Council. It’s different now,” he had said, smiling at
her ignorance. If he were anyone else, she probably would’ve
cut him for that, but the wizard held a special place in her
heart. “Art Is Alive is for everyone. And the party is for all
our friends.”
Pearl had turned away, a little embarrassed, but beaming with pride: she was considered a friend to the great
Whit Allgood.
As she scavenged, Pearl collected bits of broken glass
that sparkled in the light and scraps of metal that twisted
in the craziest ways. Perfect for creating her own piece of
art for the gallery. Whit had told her that with the new
Council, there wasn’t going to be any garbage in the streets,
but she knew that underneath a shiny new finish, there
was always a layer of grime.
She was up to her arms in trash when a sudden, loud
popping sound made her jump.
Pearl dropped to her knees in an instant. Silent as a
shadow, she slipped behind the Dumpster among the rats,
and listened. She’d been called a “gutter rat” as long as she
could remember, but she never understood the insult. Rats
survived, didn’t they?
There wasn’t a sound to be heard, but she saw a fizz of
light coming from around the corner. Pearl stood up and
let out a breath, grinning.
Had to be Razz and Eddie from down the block, who
had taught Pearl to pickpocket long ago. They had seen the
beautiful fireworks display this morning and had spent all
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day rigging up their own with fertilizer and charcoal. That
explained the noise. They’d probably blown off a hand or
something.
“You idiots!” Pearl yelled, walking over.
But before she could even round the corner, Pearl’s gray
eyes widened with shock as a rough hand clamped over
her mouth.
The men suddenly surrounding her were huge, with
grizzled faces and dark clothing. They carried heavy, crude
weapons— one of them even had an ax. She saw they had
Razz by the collar, but Eddie was nowhere in sight.
One of the brutes started lighting the fuses on the
homemade fireworks, and Razz went nuts. “Those are
mine!” he yelled belligerently. As a warning, Razz’s captor
dragged an edge of jagged glass across the boy’s throat,
drawing a thin line of blood, but Razz clenched his teeth,
refusing to scream.
The man who’d grabbed Pearl spun her around to face
him, holding her off the ground, his giant hands wrapped
around her throat. She was transfixed by his stare, so cold
and empty. One eye was as milky as snow.
Just as she started to see spots, the man threw her into
the truck like a sack of garbage. Razz came hurling in after
her, and he leaped up, clawing at the door. But the bolt had
already closed, and the engine was rumbling.
Pearl scrambled against the side of the truck, coughing
and trying to get her breath back.
“We didn’t hear a sound,” murmured Eddie from a
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corner, shaking his head. “Who can sneak up on us? No
one. These guys were like ghosts.”
There were other kids inside the truck, too—a mix of
gutter rats and rich kids, some stunned into silence, others
all-out shrieking.
“Shush! Stop being a baby!” Pearl hissed at one of the
kids, then felt a little bad. “We got to figure this out.”
Think, Pearl. Think.
Her fingers fumbled inside her pockets, searching. They
closed on something metal, and she exhaled. Her blade.
She was deft with the knife, good at picking locks with
her tiny fingers. But there were no screws or seams, and
she couldn’t find a single weak spot in the metal; it didn’t
seem like anything an ordinary man had made. And no
matter how she worked the blade, the hard bolt wouldn’t
budge.
Pearl felt real panic rise inside her for the first time.
These rough and weathered men were definitely not New
Order— so who were they working for?
And where were they taking her?
There couldn’t be a new threat so soon. No way. Whit
had said they were safe. He had promised.
Pearl squinted through the bars, the capital’s distant
lights blurring a little in her vision. They were already on
the outskirts of the City. Soon they would reach the
boundary line, and she had no idea what lay beyond.
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Chapter 3
Whit
MY TURN.
I am not an awkward person. But this is one of the most
awkward moments of my life. Wisty lives for the spotlight,
but me? I’d rather write the script.
I step up to the small platform where Ross, the DJ, was
spinning. Wisty hoots “Woo!” embarrassingly loudly, and
Byron follows her lead with his best off-the-cuff cheer:
“Go Whit!!”
The Allgood magic has always felt kind of sacred, something not to be used lightly. I’ve used mine to escape from
prison, heal the sick, and defeat the most evil dictator our
world has ever known. But now that he’s gone, now that
we’ve won, we all deserve a little joy. So, hey, I’ve been
working on a new use for my M. I start with a poem.
“Brush the ash from your bones.”
I concentrate on the power building in me, and make it
visual.
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“Cast aside your red tears.”
The gathered crowd gasps in delight as a threedimensional scene swirls behind me, morphing and changing with my words. The hologram isn’t much—just colors
and energy. But it’s as beautiful as my sister’s fireworks, or
the paintings on the wall. It’s a bit of performance art that
has every soul in the place completely enraptured for a
good five minutes. Until—
My head throbs suddenly. I double over in pain as a
bright light cuts through my vision.
It feels like it’s slicing my brain.
Janine grabs my arm, a worried look on her face. “You
okay?” she asks quietly.
I nod, standing up again. The hologram flickers behind
me like static. I start reading the poem again, trying to get
my bearings. Trying to get the energy back.
“Weep for the fallen, stand against those you fear . . .”
This time, as I continue, the expressions of the audience members change from concern to confusion and then
shock.
Something’s wrong. Something’s seriously wrong.
I turn around, and the three-dimensional images
playing out behind me are awful. A sea of black rats
scurry over one another, attacking their own tails. Worms
crawl out of an eye socket, bathing it in their milky trail.
They writhe outward toward the crowd, so real in their
holographic existence that a few people jerk backward,
shrieking.
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It’s like the movie has been switched, but it’s all in my
head.
How are these things coming . . . out of me?
Just keep going, Whit. Get it back on track.
I concentrate hard, my whole body shaking with the
effort, but the horrifying images keep projecting behind me.
The image flickers: now a child bangs his head against
the wall, over and over, as blood pools in his eyes. A mask
is removed from a face, and behind it is the chill of death.
An avalanche of snow barrels outward, and members of
the crowd turn away in terror.
“Whit!” Wisty yells, a look of horror on her face.
“Stop it!”
But I’m utterly helpless as the darkness feeds on itself. I
shake my head and jump off the stage, leaving my sister
and friends and a roomful of people gawking after me.
I run, and keep running. Out of the room. Out the big
double doors, knocking them against the wall on their
hinges, and out into the street. I take huge gulps of the
night air as I try to keep from vomiting.
Voices are calling in the distance, yelling my name, but
I can’t face them, not now, not until I shake this diseased
feeling. I won’t stop running until my lungs are screaming
and my legs ache.
I have to escape the thing that’s in my head.
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Chapter 4
Wisty
“SERIOUSLY, WHAT’S WRONG?”
“Let it go, Wisty,” Whit warns as I try to keep up.
Okay. Good sister that I am, I’m just going to ignore the
fact that my brother had a complete meltdown at a party
for our friends that was supposed to be about celebration
and happiness. I’m going to forget that he stormed out of
the gallery without any explanation, and then refused to
answer a single one of my questions when I chased after
him in the street.
Yeah, right.
“If you just tell me what happened, maybe I could
help,” I prod, turning the key to let us into my sweet new
apartment. (The upshot to using your magical powers to
save basically the whole world from a psycho villain is that
your parents freak out a little bit less when you mention
you’d really like to get your own place.)
“There’s nothing to tell,” my brother insists. He steps
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over one of the piles of stuff on the floor, and perches on a
counter stool. “Wow, Wisty, you’ve really done wonders
with the space.” Whit shakes his head. “Have the rats
moved in yet?”
“Organized chaos,” I say, cheerfully ignoring the dig. A
little mess keeps me sane, and I can do as I please here.
“And you’re the one living with weaselly Byron Swain.
That’s what I call rodent’s paradise.”
“Har har,” Whit answers dryly.
Then the doorbell rings, and we both glance toward the
front door, surprised. Whit raises an eyebrow. “Visitors
this late?”
I shrug. “It’s probably Janine, wondering why you acted
like a total freak and just left her at the gallery.”
“Wisteria,” Whit warns, looking at me sternly. He never
uses my full name.
“Whitford,” I reply mockingly, and chuck a couch cushion at his head as I walk to answer the door.
“I said, Let. It. Go.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I smirk and look through the peephole. I
glimpse the height, the dark hair . . .
Oh. Em. Gee.
It’s Heath. The guy who asked me to dance at the art
festival. Here. At my apartment. I totally spaz out, flattening my body against the door.
“What? Who is it?” Whit asks, standing up.
Ignoring my brooding brother, I finally pull myself
together enough to open the door.
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“Hi,” I say shyly.
“Hey,” Heath answers, and it’s like a little velvet purr.
Neither of us moves for a moment; we just blink at each
other, not sure of our boundaries. Under the porch
light, Heath’s pale eyes glow a cool shade of blue I’ve never
seen.
“I was thinking maybe you had the right idea,” he says
softly, finally breaking the silence. “Maybe we should just
stand here. Looking at each other. Like this.” There’s no
denying it: this instant connection feels even more intense
than before—almost blinding.
I laugh then, shaking my head. “And I was thinking
maybe it was time to move.”
“I’m game if you are,” he answers.
“What’s going on?” Whit opens the door farther
behind me.
“Um.” I pull my gaze away from Heath. “My friend just
stopped by to . . .”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about that magnificent fireworks display your sister put on earlier,” Heath answers
cordially. Then he looks at me. “I felt like I might burst,
too, if I didn’t see her again.”
The line is clearly extra cheesy for my brother’s benefit,
but it still makes my stomach flutter.
“Okay, lover boy,” Whit says, stepping out onto the
porch, frowning. “It’s late. Let’s wrap this up.”
“I wasn’t planning to take much of anyone’s time. I just
wanted to show Wisty—”
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“My sister isn’t interested.” Whit’s in hostile-big-brother
mode now. “Wisty, let’s go. Back inside.”
“Whit!” I’m sure the humiliation and anger is written
on my face, but Heath’s eyes sparkle with amusement.
“You’re going to keep Wisty locked in her own apartment? Maybe she wants a bit of freedom. Isn’t that what
you two fought so hard for?”
“Maybe you don’t know what she wants.”
Heath cocks his head. “Hey, now,” he says. “There’s no
need to feel threatened, big guy.”
Yikes. This isn’t going to be pretty.
Whit blinks at him. “Threatened?” he asks incredulously, crossing his arms. “By who? You?”
“Okay, okay,” I groan. Boys. “Relax, both of you.” I push
Whit back toward the door, then turn back to my visitor,
sighing. “I really should go back inside. . . .”
Heath holds up his hands. “Of course. Didn’t mean to
intrude. Good night, Firecracker.” He smiles and places a
single flower on the doorstep at my feet, nods to Whit, and
walks away, just like that.
I stand on the porch after he leaves, staring into the
night. He called me Firecracker. He doesn’t even know me!
I should zap him right to Shadowland, shouldn’t I? But
there’s something about the way he said it— something
familiar yet exciting and new. I can’t explain it, but I feel
incredibly drawn to this boy with the sharp tongue and
the strange eyes. The highest part of the sky is in those
eyes, cool and vast, and they seem to see right inside me.
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Maybe I’m afraid of what they see. Freedom . . . to do
what?
I pick up the flower he left. It’s lovely. Pale silver with a
bright flash of orange in the center—like nothing I’ve seen
before.
“I wonder what he wants. . . .” I mutter softly.
“I bet I can guess,” Whit says, startling me. I thought
he’d gone in.
I roll my eyes and step back inside, brushing past him.
“Oh, come on. He seems like a nice guy. And he’s right—it
is my apartment.”
“Nice guy? Every guy wants something. Usually the
same thing. Trust me, Wisty. You haven’t been in a foolball
locker room. You learn a lot in there.” I roll my eyes at my
overprotective brother.
The One Who Is The One wanted me for my power.
Since the victory, politicians seem to want me for my fame.
Heath said he just wanted to see me again. Not my magic,
not my fire.
Me.
I feel a weird sort of vulnerability. Not fear, exactly. I
know my power, hot and true, will protect me, and if that
fails, my watchdog brother sure will. But with the electricity of my interaction with Heath still making my whole
body hum, I’m just not sure I want to be protected.
It can’t be that Heath wants to be my boyfriend . . .
could it?
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Chapter 5
Wisty
I’M OUTSIDE. IT’S RAINING. The boy is there.
Heath.
The rain is in my eyes, but I can feel him.
“I just wanted to see you,” he says in that velvety voice.
“But I can’t see you,” I answer. “I can’t see anything.” I
squint, but the water is coming down too hard to see my
hand in front of my face.
“I can show you. Everything,” he promises. “Just don’t
look down.”
He takes my hand, and I shiver at his cold touch, but
I’m warm inside. Full of fire. Like my heart is filling with
air, lifting up.
And then we are lifting up—actually rising above the
City and into the clouds. I hold my breath as we break
through into sunlight, eager to see what “everything”
might be, but before I can turn, Heath leans toward me,
and I sigh, letting him pull me into his arms. . . .
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I wake up, disoriented and clutching a pillow. Then I
make a mistake: I look down.
And I almost have a heart attack.
I’m floating above my bed. Like, five feet above my bed,
just hanging out near the ceiling. I blink and fall to the
mattress, knocking the wind out of myself, and lie there,
gasping.
God, my magic is weird sometimes.
And embarrassing, I think, chucking the pillow aside. I
can only imagine the faces I must’ve been making in my
sleep.
Fortunately, this is my place, my own apartment. For
once I don’t have to deal with older brothers barging in all
the time. I close my eyes again, looking forward to the end
of the dream. Right about now, Whit is probably bugging
someone else about clean dishes, or hogging someone
else’s TV to watch foolball. . . .
No. My eyes fly open. That’s not what Whit is doing at all.
I look at the clock, my stomach sinking. I’ve already
messed up. Whit is where I’m supposed to be, right at this
moment, on the most important day of our lives.
And I’m late!
I leap out of bed, yelling as I stub my toe on a guitar I
left out. Clothes are strewn everywhere. I stumble through
them, frantically grabbing at pants and sweaters. Nothing
seems quite right for the occasion, and you never know
who you’ll run into because he just wanted to see you. . . .
Settling on a simple black dress, I jump in the shower,
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shrieking at the blast of cold water. But it’s good. No time to
focus on still-lingering dreams when your brain is freezing.
Makeup time. I frown at my reflection. Special day, but
same old face, with the added benefit of bags under the
eyes and straggly wet hair. And no time!
I pick up a celebrity rag— a guilty pleasure that’s back
now that actors and other pop idols (who aren’t The One)
are no longer being exterminated—but I’m not wasting
time with gossip right now. Tearing through the magazine,
I find what I’m looking for: a picture of an actress who has
that professional-yet-pretty look. There’s this spell I’ve
been meaning to try. . . .
I touch the face on the page and then brush my fingers
across the mirror. As I watch, my eyes seem to transform
into smoldering goddess peepers, a hint of rose color
blooms on my cheeks, and my lips look—well, like you
want to listen to what I’m saying.
I don’t have her cheekbones or her pouty lips, of course.
It’s not a full morph—just a bit of spell-spiked makeup—
but it’ll do in a pinch. Still Wisty Allgood in there, freckles
and all, but with a touch of celebrity chic. Not bad.
I struggle to pull on my high-top sneakers as I yank
open the door, and then I spot it there.
The flower.
The dream comes back to me in a rush, “everything”
echoing in my head. But what does the offering of a flower say
about a boy in real life? Sweet, or stalker? Walking down the
steps, I twirl the stem, considering, and then I realize—
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I almost forgot the most important thing!
I drop the flower and burst back into the apartment,
hastily gathering up the plans Whit and I spent hours
brainstorming, and now I’m really late. I sprint down the
street with the papers clutched to my chest, wet hair
streaming.
People are giving me strange looks, but that’s normal. It
isn’t until I get two full blocks away that I realize my right
foot is a little chilly. Sure enough, when I look down, I’m
only wearing one sneaker.
I so don’t have time for this right now.
I turn to head back for it, then stop. Instead, I close my
eyes, picturing the red high-top sneaker with its scuffs on
the side, lying just inside the door.
Then I whistle, and, like a loyal pet, the shoe flies out
the window and tumbles toward me down the street. Grinning, I turn and keep running as it gallops behind.
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Chapter 6
Whit
WHERE IS SHE?
I watch the giant clock on the wall, the slow click of the
seconds echoing in the vast chamber. My pencil mimics
the beat—tap, tap, tap— on the long table.
Matthias Bloom, self-styled Speaker of these proceedings, clears his throat for the hundredth time. As I glance
sheepishly around the wall of faces, I see that he’s not alone
in his impatience.
She knows how important this day is.
The memory of last night resurfaces then, those horrible headaches and disturbing images, and for a moment I
worry something’s happened to my sister. Maybe the vision
was some sort of omen. . . .
Come on, Wisty. Come on, I plead silently, thinking if
my stare drills hard enough into the door, it might creak
open.
Miraculously, after an eternity, it bangs open. My sister
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bursts through, a ball of flustered energy with red hair
hanging in her face. “Sorry!” she shouts as she hops across
the room, still struggling to pull on a shoe.
I shake my head, but I’m grinning anyway, because
she’s here. There’s no bad omen, and everything’s cool,
because Wisty’s got the papers in her hand—the ideas we
spent weeks developing.
With those plans and this Council, the future of our
City starts today.
“Now that our last esteemed member has arrived . . .”
Bloom sighs heavily, and straightens his tie.
Always the smart aleck, Wisty curtsies in response,
then finally plops into the seat at my side.
“May we begin?” Bloom finishes dryly.
“Great!” I stand, eager to address the group. “Since
we’re reinventing this City now, and not just fixing what
was broken, it’s important that we do it right this time.” I
grab the plans off the table and glance at my notes. “We
were thinking, start with the City’s biggest hope: kids.
School should be about creativity and fun, so kids actually
want to go.”
Looking around at the faces of my fellow Council
members—war heroes, rogue journalists, a former film
star who survived on roaches for two years underground—
my enthusiasm grows. I’m not a natural speaker like
Janine, but I’m more pumped about this cause than anything, and these are the people who can make it happen.
“We also need to build a major outdoor community
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center, so all citizens can tell us their concerns and ideas,”
I continue. “We can use The One’s old compound, and it
would be great for concerts, too.” Wisty gives me an
encouraging wink. “Of course, first we’ll have to redesign
the streets to make room for more parks. . . .”
Bloom clears his throat again sharply, and it’s like a
crack of thunder in the chamber. “Those ideas are all
charming, Mr. Allgood,” he booms. “However, this is a
Council, and all members will vote on its proceedings.”
I redden. “Right. I know, Mr. Bloom. We just thought—”
“We thought that as members of the Council—the
members who freed the Overworld, if we’re getting into
specifics—you might want to at least hear our ideas,”
Wisty blurts out.
A couple of voices shout words of encouragement, particularly the youngest of the seventeen kids on the board,
who totally idolize Wisty.
“General,” Bloom corrects. He straightens the white
swath of hair atop his glistening forehead. “And who will
fund these projects? Our bankrupt treasury?”
When Wisty and I are silent, he addresses the whole
Council, pitching his voice across the room. “Unfortunately, we cannot just burn away the problems of the New
Order as we did its flags. Along with a money shortage,” he
drawls, fixing each member in turn with his gaze, “we’re
facing a fuel shortage. A materials shortage. And a water
shortage.”
“A sense-of-humor shortage,” Wisty quips.
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But the rest of the room is silent, and I’m not laughing,
either. How did we think it was going to be so easy?
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Where should we start, then?”
There’s a flicker of compassion on Bloom’s face, but his
authoritative voice doesn’t budge when he replies, “I propose we stick to the agenda.”
“Agenda?” I look around. Everyone has a crisp, typed
sheet of paper in front of them. Everyone but us. I sit back
down with my hand-scrawled notes.
“First item,” Bloom reads. “Housing needs for displaced
citizens.”
“There’s been violence in the Gutter lately,” says the kid
from the streets whose parents were martyrs of the Resistance. “Families trying to build up their bombed houses,
but others claiming their supplies.”
I think of little Pearl Neederman and her family’s basement home in the Gutter. They didn’t have much, but they
definitely had kinship. “Maybe we could discuss ways to
get the communities working together to rebuild neighborhoods, one house at a time,” I suggest.
Every eye in the room flicks to the man who seems
to know about these things, but he shakes his snowy
head dismissively. “The Council must decide how many
stones each citizen is eligible to remove from rubble for
rebuilding.”
“We’ll need to know how many stones each rubble pile
contains, on average,” notes an eager Councilman beside
Bloom.
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“And what percentage of stones were lost in the bombing,” a droopy-eyed man across the chamber adds.
The woman to his right pipes in: “Shouldn’t we first
vote on whether stones should be determined by size or
weight or concentration of minerals . . . ?”
Two hours later, my head is throbbing even harder than
it was last night. “Is blood leaking out of my ears yet?” I
whisper to my sister.
Wisty looks up at me with glazed eyes, her chin resting
on the table. “I didn’t think this was actually possible, but
governing just might be worse than going to school.”
“Before we adjourn, I don’t want to cause anyone to
panic, but I fear we must address one last pressing issue. . . .”
Bloom announces, and the tone in his voice makes both of
us sit up straight.
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Chapter 7
Whit
BLOOM FIXES US all with a steely look I’m familiar with:
like a foolball coach who’s about to ask you to do something
ridiculous, like provoke the other team’s Demon, sacrificing
life and limb in the hopes that it’s a win for the team.
I clench my jaw and Wisty nervously chews a strand of
her hair.
“As the Keeper of The Book of Truths,” Bloom says with
self-reverence, “I have interpreted its messages as faithfully as I could.”
All eyes in the room look up at him, hungry for that
knowledge. The attention seems to make Bloom grow
taller.
“Now I fear we are at a grave point in our history, a
new-made City left vulnerable to rising crime and outside
forces.”
There’s a murmur of confusion, all of us alarmed at the
same two words.
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“What does he mean, ‘outside forces’?” Wisty whispers.
I shake my head. There is land beyond the City, of
course. To the east lies a wide river whose banks I’ve been
to a thousand times. But the currents are so deadly, no one
has ever crossed it, and it’s said that all that’s beyond is an
endless forest. To the north, there’s a desert, and to the
west, a range of mountains.
But the City has been isolated from those people for
almost three generations.
The restless crowd moves closer to Bloom, all of us
eager to understand.
“The Book warns that there is much to fear from the
King of the Mountain People to the west,” the Keeper continues. “We are facing a water shortage because every drop
running down from the mountain has stopped, and I
believe the Mountain King acts with hostile intention, as
is prophesized.”
The volume grows with this new revelation as real fear
starts to take root. “What does this mean?” a Councilman
from the outer suburbs shouts.
“It could mean many things,” Bloom says ponderously.
He seems to be talking slower and more softly now that he
has our full attention, savoring our dependence. “First it
will mean thirst. It may eventually mean that our truce
with the Desert People is broken, since we share our water
supply. One day . . .”—he drawls so slowly I want to shake
him—“it will mean war.”
The shouting reaches a fever pitch then. Bodies are
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pushing, voices yelling. The fear is so thick in the air I can
smell it now, seeping out through pores and infecting all it
touches, but I’m not going to give in, not yet. I wrap my
arms around Wisty’s shoulders protectively.
We killed The One, I remind myself. That was the
prophecy.
“I thought he didn’t want to make us panic,” Wisty says
miserably.
There’s wild speculation about attacks from the Sand
Men who live on tarantula blood and ride lizards to war,
or the Ice Eaters who feast on human flesh. “We have no
police force!” several voices are despairing.
“Council members!” Bloom steps onto a bench, his
doughy body rising above us. “I understand your fear. I
have known that fear.” He’s still talking in that slow, serene
voice, so I have to strain to hear. He draws himself up
higher, and I swear he’s sucking in his gut. “Fortunately, I
am a practiced strategist of war.”
“He wasn’t even in the war,” Wisty hisses. “I heard he
just hid from the New Order and managed to bury The
Book of Truths.”
But the Council members crowd around Bloom’s feet
just the same, hungry for his advice.
“Earlier, we agreed to give pardons to those who worked
for the New Order but who have renounced their former
loyalties,” Bloom states, to murmurs of agreement. Surprisingly, that was one of the easier votes of the day, to
choose to unite our people after losing so many. “I move
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that these experienced soldiers be reinstated as a temporary police force,” Bloom adds hastily.
“What?” Wisty and I gasp together, and I know we’re
both remembering the sound of the soldiers’ boots chasing
us through plague-ridden streets.
The room is a wild chorus of dissent. Some of us are
survivors of New Order prisons; others were orphaned by
their bombs. It’s one thing to give a brainwashed kid soldier the chance to start over. It’s another to give every old
cog in The One’s murdering machine a gun and trust him
to protect us.
Someone knocks into the bench Bloom stands on, and
he clamps a hand on his head as if to hold down his gray
toupee. “I understand your concerns,” he shouts over the
crowd. “Unfortunately, the issues I’ve mentioned aren’t the
worst of what our fair City is facing. . . .”
Kidnappings, he tells us. More kidnappings.
There isn’t much information. Someone saw a couple of
black armored vehicles. A few people heard screams. By
late evening, more than twenty-five mothers had registered their children as missing at the Council office.
A stunned silence finally falls over the once-raucous
chamber. The news feels unimaginable, yet at the same
time it feels incredibly familiar. I vividly remember the
day Wisty and I were taken, ripped from our home and
thrown into prison. There were lots of other kids there,
too. Kids a lot younger than us.
“This feels like the New Order all over again,” Wisty
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murmurs in a small voice, as if reading my thoughts.
“What if—”
“The One is dead,” I answer before she can even ask.
My sister is so strong. She’s one of the most powerful
magic makers in our world, and she defeated The One during the height of his power. Few people can really harm
her. Yet I know she hears that mocking voice and sees his
Technicolor eyes in her nightmares.
The One is dead. Absolutely and totally. But if there are
pockets of still-active New Order in the Overworld . . .
“No former New Order sympathizer will serve as part
of the Over Watch,” I say suddenly and certainly, my voice
louder than everyone else’s in the chamber— even Bloom’s.
The Book Keeper raises a cottony eyebrow. “There is no
one else strong enough for the police force. I thought I
made it clear that these are dire times—”
“We’ll handle it,” I snap.
“With all due respect . . .”
“I said, we’ll handle it.”
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Chapter 8
Pearl
“YOU WILL BE CLEANSED,” echoed the voice on the
loudspeaker, over and over.
Pearl wasn’t sure who the voice belonged to, or what
the phrase meant, or how long she had been in the dim
room crowded with sweltering bodies. At this point, the
noise was all she knew. The noise and her hunger. She
hadn’t slept since she’d been taken.
“YOU WILL BE CLEANSED,” the voice boomed, again
and again, until Pearl was delirious from her throbbing
head, her ringing ears, the heat and the gnaw of her
stomach.
“I’m clean,” she sobbed. “I swear I’m clean.”
When the door opened, Pearl thought she was hallucinating. Or dead.
But the delicious cool breeze on her skin felt real, and
so did the ground beneath her feet as Pearl stumbled out
into the open air, blinking against the sudden light of the
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sun. The air was so crisp it burned her nostrils, and she
could smell food cooking somewhere.
“YOU HAVE BEEN SAVED,” another voice echoed somewhere, and she believed it. She thought she’d gone to
heaven.
And then they were herded into a rough pen.
She didn’t have a coat or shoes, and as the cold crept
into her bones and her teeth began to chatter, she almost
wished for the sweaty warmth of the death cell again.
Almost.
“Are you hungry?” a giant man with a matted nest of a
beard yelled at them.
Pearl felt her eyes bulging from her head, her tongue
swollen. All she could do was nod.
“Then run!” he screamed.
Around and around the pen they went. As several of
the other kids stopped to catch their breath or winced as
sharp rocks cut into their bare feet, Pearl was grateful for
her gutter-kid soles, thick with calluses. Because if running meant food, she was prepared to run all day.
So she ran. And ran. And ran. At least it was warming
her up.
Finally, just before Pearl thought she would keel over
from exhaustion, a horn sounded, and the runners stopped
to wait for the next instruction.
“You did well for your first day,” an older kid with sticklike legs and arms roped with veins whispered to her. “You
didn’t even slow down.”
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“I’m glad someone noticed,” Pearl said.
“They call me Eagle. Around here, it pays to keep an
eye out.”
“Where I come from, it pays to take an eye out,” Pearl
answered, reaching for the handle of her hidden blade as a
warning that she wasn’t to be bothered, then realizing it
wouldn’t be a good idea for Eagle to know she still had it.
Pearl jutted her chin up toward the tower. “Who’s the
old guy?”
Eagle squinted against the sun to look at the man
standing on the castle balcony. “The King. They call him
the Snow Leopard.”
The old man was wrapped in rough furs and had a yellowing beard that tucked into a ruby-encrusted belt at his
waist. Above him flapped a banner with a giant white
snarling cat on it. His face looked carved from stone.
“So he’s who stole us.” Pearl narrowed her eyes and
memorized the look of the man she should save her blade for.
“He saved you,” Eagle said defensively. “He saved us all.
For something greater.”
“I don’t feel saved,” she snapped. “I feel hungry.”
Eagle shrugged. “There’s plenty of food around here.
Just follow my lead.”
“How was your run?” the bearded giant interrupted
them. “Tell your king everything you saw. Were there any
Failures?”
Eagle raised his hand immediately. “That one there.
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The scrawny one. He stopped running. I don’t think he
wants us to win.”
The King watched carefully from the tower as a blond
boy was dragged to his feet and brought to the center,
where everyone could see. His toes were all cut up and
bloody. The King gave a clipped nod, and the boy winced,
bringing a hand to his head. As Pearl watched, the boy
walked to the wall . . . and began banging his head against
it, over and over.
“Be cleansed!” the other kids chorused in rhythm with
the thunk, thunk of skull on rock.
It was awful to watch. A stream of blood flowed from
the gash on his forehead, but he kept striking himself,
again and again, until the King finally turned away. Then
the boy stumbled back, crumpling to the ground.
Two more kids were called out, and the ritual repeated.
Finally, when there were no more Failures, the brute
dished out a large portion of food to everyone who remained.
“New here, aren’t you? You still have the reek of the
slums on you.” A gangly older girl sat down next to Pearl
and the slum boys on the bench they shared with Eagle.
“But we’ll be cleansed,” Razz echoed mockingly.
“Better you’re up here than down there. The other gutter rats will be getting pretty thirsty, now that the King’s
cut off the City’s water supply.”
Pearl blinked hard as she thought of her parents, Mama
May and Hewitt; of all her aunts and little cousins—all the
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other Needermans. Living under the New Order had been
rough enough, but no water?
“No. The witch and wizard won’t stand for it,” she protested. “They’ll demand water, they’ll come up the mountain, they’ll—”
“The King is counting on it,” Eagle said.
A trap.
“They destroyed The One Who Is The One! Whit could
take on some stupid King.”
“You sure about that, little girl?”
“Of course I’m sure!”
But she had been sure The One was the only threat to
the Overworld. She had been sure Whit wouldn’t let anything happen to her. She had been sure her family was
safe. She looked around her now, at the gaunt kids running the drills, and back at the leopard flag waving proudly
overhead.
In truth, Pearl didn’t know if she could be sure of anything anymore.
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Chapter 9
Whit
“YOU’RE SURE THIS is the place?” I squint doubtfully at
the blackened windows of a crumbling old video store
near Industry Row—the Resistance’s new hideout.
“It says The Tube.” Wisty looks at something written on
the palm of her hand, and back up at the yellow letters
painted on the side of the building. “That’s what Sasha’s
friend Ross told me.”
I yank on the door. “Then why is it locked?”
“Dunno. I guess Ross forgot to pass along the info about
the secret knock or secret entrance or whatever. We’ll have
to find another way in. How about . . .”
Her eyes flash, and she drums her fingers absently. I
know that look. It’s got M written all over it. “Lead on,
sister.”
Well, being a cockroach wouldn’t have been my first
choice, but I have missed morphing. That first tickle of
power moving through your body is such a high, and the
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sensation of having six legs as I scurry after my witch-bugsister under the door is definitely a first.
It takes only a second to get in. The paint-coated space
looks huge to my little roach eyes, which makes it all the
more beautiful. Graffiti of mermaids swimming down the
wall toward dinosaurs and marching soldiers crushing
giant flowers look so real they seem to be growing right
out of the wall. These are remnants of the inspired yet
twisted visions of the repressed artists living under the
New Order.
Ross looms over us, a can of spray paint in hand, and
Sasha almost squashes me as he steps back to admire the
incredible mural. The others are crowded around a low
table, playing a card game. Emmett looks relaxed, but
Byron is sulking, and it looks like Janine is taking them
both for everything they’ve got.
“Hey, gang,” I say, morphing back into my human self.
Beside me, Wisty does the same, shaking out her limbs,
and Ross gapes at us.
“Don’t worry, you get used to it,” Sasha promises him.
“You might,” Janine says, laughing. “I don’t think I’ll
ever get used to the sight of Whit Allgood materializing
out of thin air.”
“Out of a cockroach, actually,” Wisty points out.
“Charming,” Janine answers, but she’s looking at me
when she says it, and the softness of her voice makes my
pulse speed up just a notch.
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“The door was locked,” Wisty explains. “Next time,
give us the secret knock or whatever.”
“Nah.” Emmett nods toward the broken bricks near the
far wall. “See, what you do is, you make another door.”
I grin and turn to Ross. “This is an awesome space, by
the way.”
“Thanks, man. Since the art ban was lifted, my tagging
buddies don’t really come around, but The Tube’s got a history, you know? When you said you needed a space off the
grid, it seemed perfect.”
“Speaking of which, what’s the urgent news? Are you
okay, Wisty?” Byron places a hand on her arm, then peels
it off when he sees the look she gives him.
“We’re fine,” I say. “But the City might not be. At least,
not for much longer.”
Wisty sighs. “It’s happening again. Kids are disappearing.”
I can almost see my friends’ hearts sag with the news.
It’s exactly what I’m feeling: We’re back here— already?
Then Sasha jumps to his feet, all anger in action. “Do
we know who did it? Do we know where they were last
seen? Do we have names? There’s still time.”
I shake my head. “Bloom didn’t tell us much of anything. Just the basics.”
“And that we should be terrified of an attack at any
time.” Wisty frowns.
“Sounds like he knows how to talk like a politician,”
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Janine says, her jaw tightening. “Too bad it leaves us at
ground zero for those little kids. Just like before.”
The guilt I felt earlier washes over me again. I should’ve
done something.
“But it’s different now, right?” Ross cuts in. “There’s no
New Order to fear. We have an elected Council now, and
they can handle this. They’ll find out who did it.” He looks
around the card table, wanting to believe. “Right?”
I make myself meet his eyes. “The Council isn’t exactly . . .
it isn’t what we thought it would be. There wasn’t a system
in place to deal with something like this. It’s all talk and
no action.”
“Sounds familiar,” Janine says. “Action always starts at
the ground level. That’s why we started the Resistance in
the first place.”
“It’s settled, then,” Sasha says, eager to move forward.
“The Resistance returns, and we’ll grow it again. We’ll
patrol the streets.”
“Really?” I gasp. “I know it’s a lot to ask. . . .”
“We’ll do it,” repeats Janine, her gaze meeting mine.
“All in favor?”
The hands go up, one after another, and I’m so full of
gratitude.
“Kids as cops.” Emmett nods. “Could be cool.”
“Real justice, without the corruption,” Byron adds, and
Wisty cocks an eyebrow at him. “What?” he says, incredulous. “What?!”
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“She’s just teasing you, By.” I chuckle. “Don’t give her
the satisfaction.”
“I’m in, too,” Ross says. “But if we’re the cops, are we
still resisting?”
Janine nods. “We’re resisting the fearmongering of politicians and the capture of our youth. We’re resisting having our freedom revoked.”
“Resist or submit!” Sasha crows.
“We’ll resist,” Janine promises, her clear green eyes as
determined as I’ve ever seen them. “We’re not ready to roll
over just yet.”
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Chapter 10
Wisty
“GOOD THING THEY’RE wearing red uniforms,” Mrs.
Highsmith yells into my ear excitedly the next day as
Whit’s teammate is carried off the foolball field on a
stretcher. “Is that a lot of blood or what?!”
I nod. “Broken nose” doesn’t even begin to cover it. The
kid is a pulpy mess of broken face, courtesy of the other
team’s Demon. I guess I’ll never completely understand the
appeal of a sport where boys try to kill each other. I guess
that’s why they call it foolball. Who else willingly plays a
game where a player named for evil incarnate is allowed to
do absolutely anything—break your neck, tear off your
arm, bite a chunk out of your face—as long as he can
catch you?
Not everyone can be caught, though. No Demon has
ever brought my brother down.
When the teams take the field again, Whit sidles up to
his place at the center. The whistle shrieks and Whit takes
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off without snapping the ball. The crowd whips into a
frenzy. “Use the Demon!” chant the blue team’s fans as Whit
streaks by, zigzagging around the blue bodies and dodging
the Demon’s grasp. Whit even shifts the ball like a carrot in
front of the Demon’s nose, and the crowd eats it up.
Whit pretends to falter, letting the blue Demon in for
the kill move at the very last second, and then the snap is
so quick that the guy has a useless mouthful of my brother’s ear before he realizes Whit lobbed the ball down to the
end zone seconds ago.
That’s another signature move. Whit has never scored a
single point. He told me once that it’s not a big deal to him
to get that kind of glory, but it seems like a big deal to
everyone else, so why not give the other guys the ball?
Pretty cool of him. But that’s pure Whit for you.
“What your brother’s best at is slipping through people’s fingers. . . . Just ask all the heartbroken girls on the
sideline!” Dad quips after the play—the same joke he tells
every game. Mom shakes her head at his dorkiness, like
always.
It’s good to have something familiar among all the
chaos and bad news. Whit’s been pretty shaken up about
the kidnappings—we all have—and he almost didn’t come
tonight. It took Janine to convince him that Sasha had the
Over Watch under control, and that it was just as important to lift community spirits and morale by giving them a
good show.
So far, it’s been a success, with half the City in the
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stands cheering. Whit’s playing maybe one of his best
games yet, despite the usual blood and tufts of hair littering the field. Some people say Whit has a bit of the supernatural in him when he plays, and I can see it coming out
tonight. He’s slick, he’s graceful, and he’s fierce.
I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised, then, that in the last
quarter, the blue team decides to switch in their secondstring Demon.
“Whit, watch behind!” I yell, jumping to my feet, but it’s
too late. The Demon is already diving, wrapping my brother
in a viselike leg grip and pulling him down. Whit’s first fall
is hard, and I wince as his helmet strikes with a dull thud.
The shocked crowd gasps, and then boos the Demon in
defense of their idol until Whit finally struggles back up.
This has never happened before.
“He’s just got a lot on his mind,” I say to reassure my
parents as much as myself. “Governing is hard, and then
with his weird headaches the other night . . .”
But when the blue Demon takes Whit down in the next
play, and then down a third time, the people start to take
notice. It looks like this guy’s determined to take my
brother out of commission, and he’s certainly capable.
He’s liquid smooth in his maneuvers, slipping through
openings right as they close. He anticipates Whit’s exact
timing as if he’d choreographed it himself.
But mostly? He’s fast. Faster than Whit. Again and
again, the Demon delivers moves that are quick and clean
to take Whit down without injury.
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Who is this guy?
At this point, it’s like Whit doesn’t remember how to
play. It’s a train wreck, set up for maximum smash effect,
and not one of us can turn away as the last few minutes on
the clock wind down, the blue team driving the numbers
up on the scoreboard.
Afterward, everyone is waiting to see the new secondstring-completely-unheard-of blue Demon who took down
the legendary Whit Allgood. Waiting and watching as he
high-fives his team and does handstands. When he finally
removes his helmet, the plastic reflects the light onto his
face and a little shiver runs through me.
Heath.
He looks up into the stands and I wave tentatively at
him. Heath pumps his helmet in the air a few times, then
cups his hands to yell something.
I freeze. He’s saying my name. Screaming it like it’s
some sort of tribute.
His dark hair falls back from his face in disheveled
waves, shiny with sweat, and the flush of exercise is still in
his cheeks. He’s smiling at me in the sly way that makes
me feel that scary spark. I look at all the girls drooling at
the sight of him and I can’t believe it’s me he wants.
But I can sense Mrs. Highsmith’s tight-lipped smile on
me, too, and my parents’ confusion, and I feel suddenly
embarrassed. Then I see Byron and Whit across the field,
looking at us, and I feel . . .
Well, like a traitor.
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Chapter 11
Whit
WELL, THAT WAS a new experience. I sit on one of the
sideline benches in a fog, still kind of in awe. Where did
that guy even come from?
Byron sits down next to me. “Hey, Whit. Rough game
today, huh?”
I shake my head. “Not sure what happened out there.”
“You’ll like this better—I promise.” He plops a manila
file into my lap.
“Yeah, sure, Byron.” I toss the folder aside as I pull off
the heavy padding. I’ve just lost the biggest game of my
life, and this is his idea of empathizing?
“You’ll find it interesting, no doubt.” Byron glances
toward the bleachers. “It’s an investigative file on that guy
Wisty’s—” He sits up suddenly. “No. Oh, no.”
I follow Byron’s gaze toward my family, coming down
the stands toward me, and when I see them together, my
heart breaks a little, too.
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Of course, it had to be Heath under that helmet.
“He’s New Order, Whit,” Byron says, looking devastated.
“What? Like, currently?”
“It’s all in the file,” he says, walking toward the bleachers. “I gotta tell her.”
But Wisty’s making a sudden left turn away from me.
“Wist!” I yell after her, but she doesn’t stop. Every time
this guy shows up, doing his swagger routine, she’s weird
and upset for hours afterward. And now he’s N.O. I open
the file. Or former N.O.?
I’m putting a stop to this right now.
“Hey, Demon!” I yell across the field toward the guy
who’s still reveling in victory with his teammates.
Heath turns and grins at my choice of address, and I
signal him over.
“Hey, man, good game,” he says in this superfriendly
tone. I look down at Heath’s offer to shake hands and back
up at his face.
That’s not going to happen.
Instead, I reach for my gear—pads and bands and
guards— and start shoveling it into my gym bag.
“You’re really not going to shake my hand?” He manages
to look wounded, enjoying himself in front of the onlookers
around us. “You can’t respect a guy for playing well?”
“I respect your game.” That’s definitely the truth. I
actually feel a weird sense of relief now that I don’t have to
maintain that perfect record. “We both know you played
way better than well. You wiped the field with me.”
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Heath smiles. “Humble, aren’t we?”
I shrug. “There’s always going to be someone better out
there.”
“Wanna bet?” Then he really smiles, all shark’s bite,
and a tuft of jet-black hair falls over his forehead.
“Humble, aren’t we?” I counter, sitting on the bench to
lace up my shoes.
“I could’ve killed you out there today. What’s there to
be humble about?”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” I look up at him, not sure if it’s a
threat. “This isn’t about the game.”
He grins, amused, and I fix him with a level look.
“Why are you still talking to Wisty?”
He laughs, so sure of himself. So certain life is all a
joke. “O-ho. Another big brother chat. Maybe you should
ask her why she’s still talking to me.”
I clench my teeth together.
“I know who you are.” I stare at him, detecting the
slightest falter in his gaze, like a shadow crossing as ice
blue darkens to steel.
But when he leans toward me, he’s all confidence. “I
know who you are, too,” Heath whispers, and his eyes
flicker mockingly. “But I don’t really see where you’re
going with this. . . .”
“I know you’re lying. You were a New Order Youth Brigade leader with a different name. Byron Swain showed
me your records.”
“Byron,” Heath groans. “Is that pup still nipping at
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Wisty’s heels and whining for my scraps? The One would
say that dog needs a stun gun to the groin.”
I glare at Heath, remembering Byron’s heartbroken
face.
“Hey, just kidding—no need for the silent treatment,”
he says, picking up the file and flipping through it with
casual indifference. “Tell Mr. Swain that in case he wasn’t
aware, the Council pardoned all former New Order Youth
yesterday.” He opens the folder then, shrugging as the
pages take flight and scatter in the wind. “But you knew
that, didn’t you? Since you and Wisty sit on the Council?”
“The Council votes for the good of the City. We’re talking about what’s good for my sister.”
“Well, fair ruler, that seems a bit hypocritical, if you
ask me.”
I look him in the eye. “I didn’t.”
“Fair enough.” He shrugs. “I don’t think Wisty asked
you what you thought about me, either.” Heath starts
to walk away, still smirking, but when he turns around
suddenly, I’m surprised by his intense expression and
blazing eyes.
“You don’t know anything about me, because you don’t
want to know,” he says, and for the first time, Heath seems
sincere, almost emotional. “I never lied about the Youth
Brigade. The One,” he spits, nearly choking on the word,
“killed my father. Then, like practically everyone else in
this City, I had no choice but to join his service.” Heath
picks up his shining blue helmet from the bench and rubs
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at a scuff mark. “Maybe I just wanted a fresh start, for
once.” He sighs. “I hope that satisfies your little background check.”
He gets about five paces before the guilt sets in.
Nice going, Whit.
Here I’m ready to write this guy off as a soulless faker,
and he ends up being another kid damaged by the system
who’s just trying to stay afloat.
“Hey,” I call after him.
He turns, his gaze accusatory.
“Listen,” I offer, “I’m sorry about your father. I’ll think
about what you said, okay?”
Heath shrugs, the mask of amusement creeping back
into his eyes. “Does this little heart-to-heart mean we get
to be buddies now and throw the ball around again sometime? Because I can’t wait.”
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Chapter 12
Whit
THE SKY OVERHEAD is darkening with the threat of
rain, but the clouds inside my head feel stormiest of all.
The bleachers cleared out long ago, so the touch of a
hand on my shoulder takes me by surprise.
“You okay?” Janine asks, her eyebrows crinkled with
concern.
“Yeah. Sure.” I force a smile. The field is where I’ve always
been able to let go of my anxiety, but with this loss today, my
stress over the Council, the missing kids, Heath, Wisty . . . it’s
all just been building. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”
Janine shrugs as if to say, Of course I waited. She’s hugging her bare arms to her chest, and her hair is damp. I
hadn’t even realized it was raining.
“You must be freezing,” I say, standing. “Here.” I hold
out my jacket.
Janine tilts her head to the side. “You don’t have to take
care of me, you know.”
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“Oh. Um.” I shift uncomfortably. “You were just shivering, so . . .”
But Janine smiles and pulls my jacket over her bare
shoulders anyway. “I just meant that everyone expects
you to play the hero all the time, and you don’t have to do
that with me, okay?” She looks me in the eye. “You can
be real.”
“Great. Then if you wouldn’t mind carrying this . . .” I
lift up my gym bag.
Janine’s crack of laughter is sharp and bright, and
immediately puts me at ease.
“Would you maybe want to get a bite with me?” I ask as
we walk together off the field. “I thought we could go to
that fancy new place downtown with the awesome view of
the mountains.”
“Whit Allgood, are you asking me on a date?” She
arches an eyebrow.
I grin sheepishly. As lame as it sounds, I’ve never actually asked a girl out. Celia was a cheerleader, and I was the
foolball captain, so we first got together because that’s
what everyone expected. With Janine, I have to work for it.
“What if I am?”
“Well, then I’m not sure,” she answers.
“Since when is a ‘daughter of the Revolution’ ever not
sure of anything?”
Janine smirks. “I’m not sure I want trendy food that
looks like whipped vomit and tastes like air. Let’s grab a
burger instead!”
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“Deal.”
We end up at a hole-in-the-wall grill that used to have
the best burgers and wings in the City.
“It feels exactly the same,” Janine marvels. It’s the only
building left standing on the block, but inside it’s still cozy,
with the same worn red furniture and loud decor on the
walls.
“Last time I was here, I didn’t know I was a wizard,” I
say, remembering. “I didn’t even know the Resistance
existed, and you were already running it.”
We stuff our faces with greasy goodness, reminiscing
about those early days—the jailbreaks, the protests, the sohorrible-you-just-have-to-laugh-now-because-we-made-it-outalive mishaps—if you can call them “mishaps.”
“I hate to say it, but this barbecue dip kind of reminds
me of that time the Lost Ones basted us in roasting sauces,”
Janine says.
Yeah, that was rough—we were trapped between dimensions in the maze of Shadowland, and hunted down by
tormented souls who survive on the flesh of the living. Not
one of our finest moments.
“I still don’t get why they wanted to eat you.” I pick up
her hand. “Not much meat,” I joke. But feeling the warmth in
her touch, I can’t help thinking about how I almost lost her
then. “That was one of the worst days of my life,” I say
quietly.
Janine meets my eyes. “That was the day I knew . . .”
“Knew what?” I ask, even though I remember. It was
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the day she told me she loved me. I couldn’t say it back,
not yet.
“I knew I never wanted to eat barbecue again,” Janine
answers solemnly, and takes a huge bite of her saucecovered burger. I crack up, but Janine shakes her head and
takes my hand again.
“What?” I ask. She glances down at our entwined
fingers.
“I never thought I’d be holding hands with the star of
the foolball team, that’s all.”
“Yeah, because back in school, girls like you wouldn’t
give us jocks the time of day.”
“Ha!” Janine cackles. “Girls like me?”
“Creative, confident, independent, crazy smart . . .”
“All true!” she says wryly. “I was smart enough to see
there was more to Whit Allgood than muscles, even before
you read me poetry.”
I smile, remembering that first intense moment between
us, and the awkwardness after, when Wisty told her I
hadn’t even written the poem.
Janine drops her eyes and sighs. “But you were always
with Celia. It was like you didn’t even see other girls, especially me.”
“I see you now,” I say, squeezing her hand.
Janine looks up at me, and I’m really happy to just lose
myself inside the endlessness of her wide green eyes. “I see
you, too.”
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Chapter 13
Whit
I’M WALKING THROUGH darkness where trees are made
of bone, and shadows slither under my feet. When I hear
wailing in the distance, a familiar terror grips me. I start to
run. But then the sky fills with light, the noises stop, and
her face is all around me. Her almond eyes, sweet mouth,
and rich curls— she’s all I see.
“Celia?” I ask, blinking up at her ethereal image in
wonder. After she died, even the thought of Celia brought
instant tears and a sharp stab of hurt, but right now, I only
feel peace.
“It’s good to see you, Whit,” she says serenely. “How’s
Janine? I can feel the two of you getting closer.”
The accusation makes me wince. “I’m sorry, Celes,” I
blurt out. “I still miss you every day. You know I wish it
could’ve been different, that I could be with you forever,
but . . .”
“But you were meant to live,” she murmurs, and her
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gaze gets distant. “You’re meant to be with someone who is
real and alive.”
I nod. Celia’s part of beyond now, a face in the sky I
can’t even touch. And when I try to remember her musical
laugh and sweet perfume, there’s a disturbing emptiness, a
place my memories can’t reach anymore.
“How are you, Whit?” she asks in that removed voice,
her features blurring in the wind. “Tell me you’re happy.
Tell me it was all worth it.”
Was her death worth it to destroy The One?
“I think it was worth it. . . .” I say hesitantly. But I was
never good at deceiving Celia, even when it would’ve been
best for both of us.
“What is it?” she asks, the clouds shifting as her lips
purse with concern.
“It’s just so much harder running things than I’d imagined,” I sigh. “Dealing with laws and kidnappings and the
Mountain King threat. And Wisty seems to be pulling
away from me and—”
“The Mountain King?” Celia breaks in. The light filling
the sky flickers like a candle.
“From the Mountain on the western border . . .”
“The Mountain King is alive?” Her detached tone is
replaced with alarm.
“The Council thinks he just wants to negotiate the old
laws for water usage,” I say, trying to stay calm.
“Listen to me, Whit.” Celia’s voice rises, and the bone
trees around me sway. “There are souls here in the beyond,
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souls of children, who became Lost Ones because they
couldn’t rest after what had happened to them at the hands
of the Mountain King.”
“I don’t understand,” I whisper, feeling a cold dread
flood my chest.
“The Mountain King killed them, Whit. He slaughtered
whole cities of people!” Celia screams, her voice thundering all around me. The force of the sound knocks me to the
ground.
“What are you talking about?” I shout up at the sky, but
her face is fuzzy static now.
“Promise me you’ll stay away from the Mountain,”
Celia pleads as she fades into red clouds. The shadows
start to creep back in as the light dims, and I feel my panic
rising. “Promise me you’ll be careful. . . .”
I wake up from the dream soaked in sweat, with her
voice still echoing in my head. But it’s the middle of the
night, and Celia is dead. I don’t know who to tell, or who
to fear, or where to go. I don’t even know if it was real.
I’m alone in darkness again.
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Chapter 14
Whit
“SO.” I LOOK AROUND a table at the tired faces of the
Over Watch, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice.
“What’s the latest? Has anyone heard any news about the
Mountain People?”
Wisty looks at me strangely, but I continue. “Any contact near the border, or changes with the water negotiations? Anything about the King? Any news at all?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, brother,” Wisty protests. “You
sound like our dear General Bloom, and we’re not at the
Council meeting quite yet. Coffee first. Then business.”
“Coffee coming right up,” Emmett offers.
As he sets down the mugs, I raise an eyebrow at my sister. “I thought you hated coffee.”
“I do.” Wisty drains her mug in one big gulp. “I also
hate rules. And meetings. And waking up early. Ruling the
City is just a barrel of fun. Hit me with another cup,
Emmett,” she says, and slaps the card table.
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“Hey, easy there,” Byron groans, lifting his head off the
swaying table and rubbing sleep from his eyes.
I guess I can’t blame them. It is obscenely early—the
sun hasn’t even risen—but after that dream, I lay awake,
the dread slowly turning into icy fear. By early morning, I
sent out the alert to the Resistance to meet at The Tube so
we could touch base before the eight o’clock Council
meeting.
I’m so on edge, even the graffiti looks malicious this
morning; all I see are those painted soldiers marching on
the wall. But then I catch Janine midyawn and she grins,
looking adorably game for anything, as usual. For a moment,
the warmth I felt with her yesterday floods my senses.
Maybe the dream was just a stupid dream. Everything is
going to be okay.
“There were more kidnappings last night,” Sasha reports
in his typically blunt way, instantly shattering all notions
of things being okay. We all stare at him, and he shakes his
head dejectedly. “We couldn’t get there in time. That’s the
news.”
“I thought we had eyes and ears all over the City,” I say,
bewildered.
Byron nods. “I used all my connections.”
“And no one saw anything?” I ask desperately, the frustration starting to spill out of me. “We couldn’t save them?”
“Hey, we’re doing everything we can, pulling crazy
hours,” Sasha says defensively. “I was up all night patrolling.”
“We just need more people, Whit,” Janine says. “It’s
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hard to get new recruits because the kids who survived
the New Order are still afraid. Don’t forget, it wasn’t that
long ago that we lost most of the Resistance to the regime.”
Celia’s voice intrudes on my thoughts. Souls of children,
she said. The Mountain King killed them.
“And you’re sure none of your street ears have heard
anything about the Mountain King?” I repeat, fixing Byron
with a hard stare until he squirms.
“Whit, stop it!” Wisty snaps her fingers in front of my
face. “This is bad enough without you acting like a total
jerk. What’s up with this stuff about the Mountain King?
Did you have another one of those visions?”
Janine raises her eyebrows, and I hesitate. Just my dead
girlfriend shrieking at me to be careful.
I sigh, feeling like an idiot as I see the wounded looks
around the table. “I’m sorry, guys. I know you’re all doing
the best you can. Just ignore me.”
“Always do,” Wisty grumbles.
“No visions. Just some bad dreams.”
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Chapter 15
Wisty
“I’M SO RELIEVED you brought up the issue of security,
Mr. Allgood,” Matthias Bloom thunders into the microphone as Whit retakes his seat in the Council. My brother
just presented his concerns about the threat of the Mountain King, but I’m not sure I completely understand his
recent obsession with the guy.
“What’s the deal?” I whisper to Whit, but he shakes his
head maddeningly and hushes me as Bloom continues.
“Protecting our citizenry is our highest priority, as
you’ll see from our first agenda item today,” Bloom says,
and nods to a jowly man in the corner.
The man reads from the agenda: “ ‘Sanctions for magic
makers.’ ”
Whit jerks his head back toward Bloom. “What?”
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m on my feet. “What
kind of sanctions? The City is free!”
“Exactly.” Bloom stares down from the new raised
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platform he’s had installed in the chamber. The Seat of the
Speaker, he’s calling it. “And by requiring magic makers to
register their powers with the Council, we ensure it will
remain free and safe for all.”
“So . . . it’s just a registry?” Whit asks guardedly. I gape
at him like he’s crazy. Just a registry? This is the first sign
of a police state if I ever saw one.
Bloom shifts in his high seat. “Yes. And in addition, as a
courtesy, we will also ask that no acts of magic be performed at this time, at least until our City becomes better
able to defend itself. Magical behavior is just too unpredictable. Too dangerous.”
I clench my jaw. Behavior? It sounded like he was talking about a bunch of un-potty-trained toddlers. No one
messes with my M. “And if we refuse?”
“Why would any magic makers refuse to comply with
such a code, unless they planned to do harm? Steps would
need to be taken to control the situation.”
“Control?” I feel a scowl searing my face, and I don’t
even have to look at Whit to know that he’s got on that face
that’s pleading with me not to do something rash.
“How’s this for control?” My anger is tingling through
my body, and as I work my M up into a spell, I see a uniform look of shock rippling across the room on the Council members’ faces.
Here’s what they saw: my mouth, and then the rest of
me, dissolving into thin air as I disappeared from my seat.
It feels kind of like needle pricks all over me.
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“How exactly are you going to control us?” My voice
echoes around the room. “Forcibly? Like The One did?”
I make myself reappear in the rafters for a brief instant,
but by the time Bloom’s eyes flit upward, I’m dissipating
again. It’s a lot of work—but absolutely worth every uncomfortable look shared among the Council.
Unfortunately Bloom’s wit is sharp. “The One was truly
evil,” Bloom agrees. “Naturally, we recognize that not all
magicians pose a threat to society, but without regulating
such power, how do we know we won’t end up with another person exerting their unique powers over society
like The One did?” A tense hum of whispers builds.
But I’m about to make Bloom’s golden words disappear, too.
In an instant Bloom’s toupee soars off his head onto the
floor, hit by my invisible hand, and the room erupts in
snickers.
That was priceless. I can’t believe I didn’t think of doing
it sooner.
Bloom finally loses his cool, and his chins quiver with
his booming voice. “Ms. Allgood! This is an official Council
meeting in the sacred Hall of your City! Will you kindly
return to your seat?”
I can’t resist one last retort. Instead of taking my seat, I
materialize right next to him, smirking. This time, he
flinches.
With the last of the magic energy I can muster right
now, I return to my brother’s side. I can tell Whit isn’t all
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that amused by my performance—but he’s still fighting
the good fight.
“These are our rights, and you don’t have the right to
change them, Mr. Bloom,” he says. “You don’t speak for all
the people.”
“I am the Speaker. I absolutely speak for our citizens,”
Bloom says irritably as he smoothes the few remaining
wispy hairs across his head. “Each of us is an elected
Council member, and each of us has an equal voice.” He
looks like a fat cat about to pounce. “So, let us take a vote,
then, shall we? All who oppose that magic makers should
disclose their potential to do harm to the general public?”
From the way Bloom worded it, I see uncertainty written on every face in the room. Still, the hands start to rise,
one by one. Most of them are kids who were elected to be
on the Council because of their extreme bravery, but they
still look terrified.
“Come on,” Whit says under his breath. “Come on,
come on.”
The revolutionary from the Gutter raises his hand, and
the journalist from the suburbs casts her vote. I hold my
breath as I wait for more, hoping, hoping . . .
But as I look around, the rest of the hands are folded.
The voting is done, and it’s not enough. Eight out of
thirty-four.
“All in favor of the proposed sanctions, to secure the
safety of the citizenry of the City?” Bloom asks cheerfully.
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The speed at which the rest of the hands shoot up takes
my breath away. I clutch Whit’s arm as I gaze around the
circle of the room, and I feel dizzy and nauseated.
We’re surrounded by a wall of hands, every one of them
ready to grab for our throats.
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Chapter 16
Whit
“WHAT DOES The Book of Truths say?” I shout, my voice
carrying through the chamber. “I believe The Book wouldn’t
allow for such sanctions.”
Bloom looks up from his agenda, surprised. “And what
makes you believe such a thing, Mr. Allgood?”
I step into the center of the chamber, my shoes echoing
on the marble floor. I look around, trying to catch the
Council’s eyes, spark their trust, remind them why they are
here. To serve the good of the community. To fight for free will.
“As free citizens, we all have the right to see what
Council member Bloom sees in The Book of Truths. I move
that we reprint the book and distribute it to all citizens
immediately.”
There are collective gasps and excited whisperings
around the chamber at the suggestion. Bloom’s eyes appear
stone cold from his high chamber seat. “And I move to
table this issue for further review. Next agenda item?”
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I hear Wisty’s sharp intake of breath. The Book was
supposed to be the property of the whole Council. “What
is there to review?” she shouts, starting to reach her breaking point.
Bloom flicks his wrist absently, as if the answer is obvious. “It would be irresponsible to rush into reprinting. In
such perilous times, The Book of Truths could be dangerous in the wrong hands.”
Exactly. Wisty and I share a look. Bloom’s hands are
starting to seem a lot less clean.
“If we’re facing possible war, the community needs that
information now more than ever,” I point out.
“I agree,” Bloom allows. “The community needs to be
protected, and they need someone to interpret the insight
that The Book of Truths offers.”
We parry words back and forth like swordsmen matching blow for blow. The other thirty-one Council members
look on, their heads swiveling between us as we each try
to gain ground.
But my head starts to throb from the effort, and I know
Bloom can out-talk and out-twist and out-sell Wisty and
me any day. Everything’s riding on this debate, and it’s
only a matter of time before we fail to block.
There’s only one final weapon to pull from our arsenal.
Wisty sighs and finally says what everyone has been
thinking.
“Look. I killed The One Who Is The One myself. My
brother and I saved this City when no one else could, and
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we deserve a little respect. We demand to see The Book of
Truths, which foretold of our power!”
She’s played our ace.
The faces around the room are nodding in agreement.
But they’re still looking at Bloom the Speaker, Bloom the
interpreter, Bloom the Keeper of The Book of Truths, to see
what he’ll say.
The general clears his throat with a guttural hacking.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Bloom shakes his gray
head sadly. “Regardless of your achievements, as magic
makers, you’re subject to the recently passed sanctions. No
wizard may see the sacred words, lest they twist them into
spells for their own power.”
“By whose authority do you deny us our most basic
right?” I shout.
“By the authority of this Council, elected by the people,”
Bloom answers mildly. “I’m afraid that unless The Book
decrees, the Council’s ruling must stand.”
Bloom strikes a large bell and it echoes around the
chamber’s high ceilings like a wail of frustration. Then he
allows himself a rare, self-congratulatory grin as he says,
“This meeting is adjourned.”
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